Beatrix by Honore de Balzac

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So saying, she sat down and began to knit with a rapidity whichbetrayed her inward emotion.

"My angel," said the mother, weeping, "I foresee some evil coming downupon you in that house."

"Who is making Fanny weep?" cried the old man, waking with a start atthe sound of his wife's voice. He looked round upon his sister, hisson, and the baroness. "What is the matter?" he asked.

"Nothing, my friend," replied his wife.

"Mamma," said Calyste, whispering in his mother's ear, "it isimpossible for me to explain myself just now; but to-night you and Iwill talk of this. When you know all, you will bless Mademoiselle desTouches."

"Mothers do not like to curse," replied the baroness. "I could notcurse a woman who truly loved my Calyste."

The young man bade adieu to his father and went out. The baron and hiswife rose to see him pass through the court-yard, open the gate, anddisappear. The baroness did not again take up the newspaper; she wastoo agitated. In this tranquil, untroubled life such a discussion wasthe equivalent of a quarrel in other homes. Though somewhat calmed,her motherly uneasiness was not dispersed. Whither would such afriendship, which might claim the life of Calyste and destroy it, leadher boy? Bless Mademoiselle des Touches? how could that be? Thesequestions were as momentous to her simple soul as the fury ofrevolutions to a statesman. Camille Maupin was Revolution itself inthat calm and placid home.

"I fear that woman will ruin him," she said, picking up the paper.

"My dear Fanny," said the old baron, with a jaunty air, "you are toomuch of an angel to understand these things. Mademoiselle des Touchesis, they say, as black as a crow, as strong as a Turk, and forty yearsold. Our dear Calyste was certain to fall in love with her. Of coursehe will tell certain honorable little lies to conceal his happiness.Let him alone to amuse himself with his first illusions."

"If it had been any other woman--" began the baroness.

"But, my dear Fanny, if the woman were a saint she would not acceptyour son." The baroness again picked up the paper. "I will go and seeher myself," added the baron, "and tell you all about her."

This speech has no savor at the present moment. But after reading thebiography of Camille Maupin you can then imagine the old baronentering the lists against that illustrious woman.

VI

BIOGRAPHY OF CAMILLE MAUPIN

The town of Guerande, which for two months past had seen Calyste, itsflower and pride, going, morning or evening, often morning andevening, to Les Touches, concluded that Mademoiselle Felicite desTouches was passionately in love with the beautiful youth, and thatshe practised upon him all kinds of sorceries. More than one younggirl and wife asked herself by what right an old woman exercised soabsolute an empire over that angel. When Calyste passed along theGrand' Rue to the Croisic gate many a regretful eye was fastened onhim.

It now became necessary to explain the rumors which hovered about theperson whom Calyste was on his way to see. These rumors, swelled byBreton gossip, envenomed by public ignorance, had reached the rector.The receiver of taxes, the /juge de paix/, the head of the Saint-Nazaire custom-house and other lettered persons had not reassured theabbe by relating to him the strange and fantastic life of the femalewriter who concealed herself under the masculine name of CamilleMaupin. She did not as yet eat little children, nor kill her slaveslike Cleopatra, nor throw men into the river as the heroine of theTour de Nesle was falsely accused of doing; but to the Abbe Grimontthis monstrous creature, a cross between a siren and an atheist, wasan immoral combination of woman and philosopher who violated everysocial law invented to restrain or utilize the infirmities ofwomankind.

Just as Clara Gazul is the female pseudonym of a distinguished malewriter, George Sand the masculine pseudonym of a woman of genius, soCamille Maupin was the mask behind which was long hidden a charmingyoung woman, very well-born, a Breton, named Felicite des Touches, theperson who was now causing such lively anxiety to the Baronne duGuenic and the excellent rector of Guerande. The Breton des Touchesfamily has no connection with the family of the same name in Touraine,to which belongs the ambassador of the Regent, even more famous to-dayfor his writings than for his diplomatic talents.

Camille Maupin, one of the few celebrated women of the nineteenthcentury, was long supposed to be a man, on account of the virility ofher first writings. All the world now knows the two volumes of plays,not intended for representation on the stage, written after the mannerof Shakespeare or Lopez de Vega, published in 1822, which made a sortof literary revolution when the great question of the classics and theromanticists palpitated on all sides,--in the newspapers, at theclubs, at the Academy, everywhere. Since then, Camille Maupin haswritten several plays and a novel, which have not belied the successobtained by her first publication--now, perhaps, too much forgotten.To explain by what net-work of circumstances the masculine incarnationof a young girl was brought about, why Felicite des Touches became aman and an author, and why, more fortunate than Madame de Stael, shekept her freedom and was thus more excusable for her celebrity, wouldbe to satisfy many curiosities and do justice to one of those abnormalbeings who rise in humanity like monuments, and whose fame is promotedby its rarity,--for in twenty centuries we can count, at most, twentyfamous women. Therefore, although in these pages she stands as asecondary character, in consideration of the fact that she plays agreat part in the literary history of our epoch, and that herinfluence over Calyste was great, no one, we think, will regret beingmade to pause before that figure rather longer than modern artpermits.

Mademoiselle Felicite des Touches became an orphan in 1793. Herproperty escaped confiscation by reason of the deaths of her fatherand brother. The first was killed on the 10th of August, at thethreshold of the palace, among the defenders of the king, near whoseperson his rank as major of the guards of the gate had placed him. Herbrother, one of the body-guard, was massacred at Les Carmes.Mademoiselle des Touches was two years old when her mother died,killed by grief, a few days after this second catastrophe. When dying,Madame des Touches confided her daughter to her sister, a nun ofChelles. Madame de Faucombe, the nun, prudently took the orphan toFaucombe, a good-sized estate near Nantes, belonging to Madame desTouches, and there she settled with the little girl and three sistersof her convent. The populace of Nantes, during the last days of theTerror, tore down the chateau, seized the nuns and Mademoiselle desTouches, and threw them into prison on a false charge of receivingemissaries of Pitt and Coburg. The 9th Thermidor released them.Felicite's aunt died of fear. Two of the sisters left France, and thethird confided the little girl to her nearest relation, Monsieur deFaucombe, her maternal great-uncle, who lived in Nantes.

Monsieur de Faucombe, an old man sixty years of age, had married ayoung woman to whom he left the management of his affairs. He busiedhimself in archaeology,--a passion, or to speak more correctly, one ofthose manias which enable old men to fancy themselves still living.The education of his ward was therefore left to chance. Little cared-for by her uncle's wife, a young woman given over to the socialpleasures of the imperial epoch, Felicite brought herself up as a boy.She kept company with Monsieur de Faucombe in his library; where sheread everything it pleased her to read. She thus obtained a knowledgeof life in theory, and had no innocence of mind, though virginpersonally. Her intellect floated on the impurities of knowledge whileher heart was pure. Her learning became extraordinary, the result of apassion for reading, sustained by a powerful memory. At eighteen yearsof age she was as well-informed on all topics as a young man enteringa literary career has need to be in our day. Her prodigious readingcontrolled her passions far more than conventual life would have done;for there the imaginations of young girls run riot. A brain crammedwith knowledge that was neither digested nor classed governed theheart and soul of the child. This depravity of the intellect, withoutaction upon the chastity of the body, would have amazed philosophersand observers, had any one in Nantes even suspected the powers ofMademoiselle des Touches.

The result of all this was in a contrary direction to the cause.Felicite had no inclinations toward evil; she conceived everything bythought, but abstained from deed. Old Faucombe was enchanted with her,and she helped him in his work,--writing three of his books, which theworthy old gentleman believed were his own; for his spiritualpaternity was blind. Such mental labor, not agreeing with thedevelopments of girlhood, had its effect. Felicite fell ill; her bloodwas overheated, and her chest seemed threatened with inflammation. Thedoctors ordered horseback exercise and the amusements of society.Mademoiselle des Touches became, in consequence, an admirablehorsewoman, and recovered her health in a few months.

At the age of eighteen she appeared in the world, where she producedso great a sensation that no one in Nantes called her anything elsethan "the beautiful Mademoiselle des Touches." Led to enter society byone of the imperishable sentiments in the heart of a woman, howeversuperior she may be, the worship she inspired found her cold andunresponsive. Hurt by her aunt and her cousins, who ridiculed herstudies and teased her about her unwillingness for society, which theyattributed to a lack of the power of pleasing, Felicite resolved onmaking herself coquettish, gay, volatile,--a woman, in short. But sheexpected in return an exchange of ideas, seductions, and pleasures inharmony with the elevation of her own mind and the extent of itsknowledge. Instead of that, she was filled with disgust for thecommonplaces of conversation, the silliness of gallantry; and moreespecially was she shocked by the supremacy of military men, to whomsociety made obeisance at that period. She had, not unnaturally,neglected the minor accomplishments. Finding herself inferior to thepretty dolls who played on the piano and made themselves agreeable bysinging ballads, she determined to be a musician. Retiring into herformer solitude she set to work resolvedly, under the direction of thebest master in the town. She was rich, and she sent for Steibelt whenthe time came to perfect herself. The astonished town still talks ofthis princely conduct. The stay of that master cost her twelvethousand francs. Later, when she went to Paris, she studied harmonyand thorough-bass, and composed the music of two operas which have hadgreat success, though the public has never been admitted to the secretof their authorship. Ostensibly these operas are by Conti, one of themost eminent musicians of our day; but this circumstance belongs tothe history of her heart, and will be mentioned later on.

The mediocrity of the society of a provincial town wearied her soexcessively, her imagination was so filled with grandiose ideas thatalthough she returned to the salons to eclipse other women once moreby her beauty, and enjoy her new triumph as a musician, she againdeserted them; and having proved her power to her cousins, and driventwo lovers to despair, she returned to her books, her piano, the worksof Beethoven, and her old friend Faucombe. In 1812, when she wastwenty-one years of age, the old archaeologist handed over to her hisguardianship accounts. From that year, she took control of herfortune, which consisted of fifteen thousand francs a year, derivedfrom Les Touches, the property of her father; twelve thousand a yearfrom Faucombe (which, however, she increased one-third on renewing theleases); and a capital of three hundred thousand francs laid by duringher minority by her guardians.

Felicite acquired from her experience of provincial life, anunderstanding of money, and that strong tendency to administrativewisdom which enables the provinces to hold their own under theascensional movement of capital towards Paris. She drew her threehundred thousand francs from the house of business where her guardianhad placed them, and invested them on the Grand-livre at the verymoment of the disasters of the retreat from Moscow. In this way, sheincreased her income by thirty thousand francs. All expenses paid, shefound herself with fifty thousand francs a year to invest. At twenty-one years of age a girl with such force of will is the equal of a manof thirty. Her mind had taken a wide range; habits of criticismenabled her to judge soberly of men, and art, and things, and publicquestions. Henceforth she resolved to leave Nantes; but old Faucombefalling ill with his last illness, she, who had been both wife anddaughter to him, remained to nurse him, with the devotion of an angel,for eighteen months, closing his eyes at the moment when Napoleon wasstruggling with all Europe on the corpse of France. Her removal toParis was therefore still further postponed until the close of thatcrisis.

As a Royalist, she hastened to be present at the return of theBourbons to Paris. There the Grandlieus, to whom she was related,received her as their guest; but the catastrophes of March 20intervened, and her future was vague and uncertain. She was thusenabled to see with her own eyes that last image of the Empire, andbehold the Grand Army when it came to the Champ de Mars, as to a Romancircus, to salute its Caesar before it went to its death at Waterloo.The great and noble soul of Felicite was stirred by that magicspectacle. The political commotions, the glamour of that theatricalplay of three months which history has called the Hundred Days,occupied her mind and preserved her from all personal emotions in themidst of a convulsion which dispersed the royalist society among whomshe had intended to reside. The Grandlieus followed the Bourbons toGhent, leaving their house to Mademoiselle des Touches. Felicite, whodid not choose to take a subordinate position, purchased for onehundred and thirty thousand francs one of the finest houses in the rueMont Blanc, where she installed herself on the return of the Bourbonsin 1815. The garden of this house is to-day worth two millions.

Accustomed to control her own life, Felicite soon familiarized herselfwith the ways of thought and action which are held to be exclusivelythe province of man. In 1816 she was twenty-five years old. She knewnothing of marriage; her conception of it was wholly that of thought;she judged it in its causes instead of its effect, and saw only itsobjectionable side. Her superior mind refused to make the abdicationby which a married woman begins that life; she keenly felt the valueof independence, and was conscious of disgust for the duties ofmaternity.

It is necessary to give these details to explain the anomaliespresented by the life of Camille Maupin. She had known neither fathernor mother; she had been her own mistress from childhood; her guardianwas an old archaeologist. Chance had flung her into the regions ofknowledge and of imagination, into the world of literature, instead ofholding her within the rigid circle defined by the futile educationgiven to women, and by maternal instructions as to dress, hypocriticalpropriety, and the hunting graces of their sex. Thus, long before shebecame celebrated, a glance might have told an observer that she hadnever played with dolls.

Toward the close of the year 1817 Felicite des Touches began toperceive, not the fading of her beauty, but the beginning of a certainlassitude of body. She saw that a change would presently take place inher person as the result of her obstinate celibacy. She wanted toretain her youth and beauty, to which at that time she clung. Sciencewarned her of the sentence pronounced by Nature upon all hercreations, which perish as much by the misconception of her laws as bythe abuse of them. The macerated face of her aunt returned to hermemory and made her shudder. Placed between marriage and love, herdesire was to keep her freedom; but she was now no longer indifferentto homage and the admiration that surrounded her. She was, at themoment when this history begins, almost exactly what she was in 1817.Eighteen years had passed over her head and respected it. At forty shemight have been thought no more than twenty-five.

Therefore to describe her in 1836 is to picture her as she was in1817. Women who know the conditions of temperament and happiness inwhich a woman should live to resist the ravages of time willunderstand how and why Felicite des Touches enjoyed this greatprivilege as they study a portrait for which were reserved thebrightest tints of Nature's palette, and the richest setting.

Brittany presents a curious problem to be solved in the predominanceof dark hair, brown eyes, and swarthy complexions in a region so nearEngland that the atmospheric effects are almost identical. Does thisproblem belong to the great question of races? to hitherto unobservedphysical influences? Science may some day find the reason of thispeculiarity, which ceases in the adjoining province of Normandy.Waiting its solution, this odd fact is there before our eyes; faircomplexions are rare in Brittany, where the women's eyes are as blackand lively as those of Southern women; but instead of possessing thetall figures and swaying lines of Italy and Spain, they are usuallyshort, close-knit, well set-up and firm, except in the higher classeswhich are crossed by their alliances.

Mademoiselle des Touches, a true Breton, is of medium height, thoughshe looks taller than she really is. This effect is produced by thecharacter of her face, which gives height to her form. She has thatskin, olive by day and dazzling by candlelight, which distinguishes abeautiful Italian; you might, if you pleased, call it animated ivory.The light glides along a skin of that texture as on a polishedsurface; it shines; a violent emotion is necessary to bring thefaintest color to the centre of the cheeks, where it goes away almostimmediately. This peculiarity gives to her face the calm impassibilityof the savage. The face, more long than oval, resembles that of somebeautiful Isis in the Egyptian bas-reliefs; it has the purity of theheads of sphinxes, polished by the fire of the desert, kissed by aCoptic sun. The tones of the skin are in harmony with the faultlessmodelling of the head. The black and abundant hair descends in heavymasses beside the throat, like the coif of the statues at Memphis, andcarries out magnificently the general severity of form. The foreheadis full, broad, and swelling about the temples, illuminated bysurfaces which catch the light, and modelled like the brow of thehunting Diana, a powerful and determined brow, silent and self-contained. The arch of the eye-brows, vigorously drawn, surmounts apair of eyes whose flame scintillates at times like that of a fixedstar. The white of the eye is neither bluish, nor strewn with scarletthreads, nor is it purely white; it has the texture of horn, but thetone is warm. The pupil is surrounded by an orange circle; it is ofbronze set in gold, but vivid gold and animated bronze. This pupilhas depth; it is not underlaid, as in certain eyes, by a species offoil, which sends back the light and makes such eyes resemble those ofcats or tigers; it has not that terrible inflexibility which makes asensitive person shudder; but this depth has in it something of theinfinite, just as the external radiance of the eyes suggests theabsolute. The glance of an observer may be lost in that soul, whichgathers itself up and retires with as much rapidity as it gushed for asecond into those velvet eyes. In moments of passion the eyes ofCamille Maupin are sublime; the gold of her glance illuminates themand they flame. But in repose they are dull; the torpor of meditationoften lends them an appearance of stupidity[*]; in like manner, whenthe glow of the soul is absent the lines of the face are sad.

[*] George Sand says of herself, in "L'Histoire de Ma Vie," published long after the above was written: "The habit of meditation gave me /l'air bete/ (a stupid air). I say the word frankly, for all my life I have been told this, and therefore it must be true."--TR.

The lashes of the eyelids are short, but thick and black as the tip ofan ermine's tail; the eyelids are brown and strewn with red fibrils,which give them grace and strength,--two qualities which are seldomunited in a woman. The circle round the eyes shows not the slightestblemish nor the smallest wrinkle. There, again, we find the granite ofan Egyptian statue softened by the ages. But the line of the cheek-bones, though soft, is more pronounced than in other women andcompletes the character of strength which the face expresses. Thenose, thin and straight, parts into two oblique nostrils, passionatelydilated at times, and showing the transparent pink of their delicatelining. This nose is an admirable continuation of the forehead, withwhich it blends in a most delicious line. It is perfectly white fromits spring to its tip, and the tip is endowed with a sort of mobilitywhich does marvels if Camille is indignant, or angry, or rebellious.There, above all, as Talma once remarked, is seen depicted the angeror the irony of great minds. The immobility of the human nostrilindicates a certain narrowness of soul; never did the nose of a miseroscillate; it contracts like the lips; he locks up his face as he doeshis money.

Camille's mouth, arching at the corners, is of a vivid red; bloodabounds there, and supplies the living, thinking oxide which givessuch seduction to the lips, reassuring the lover whom the gravity ofthat majestic face may have dismayed. The upper lip is thin, thefurrow which unites it with the nose comes low, giving it a centrecurve which emphasizes its natural disdain. Camille has little to doto express anger. This beautiful lip is supported by the strong redbreadth of its lower mate, adorable in kindness, swelling with love, alip like the outer petal of a pomegranate such as Phidias might havecarved, and the color of which it has. The chin is firm and ratherfull; but it expresses resolution and fitly ends this profile, royalif not divine. It is necessary to add that the upper lip beneath thenose is lightly shaded by a charming down. Nature would have made ablunder had she not cast that tender mist upon the face. The ears aredelicately convoluted,--a sign of secret refinement. The bust islarge, the waist slim and sufficiently rounded. The hips are notprominent, but very graceful; the line of the thighs is magnificent,recalling Bacchus rather than the Venus Callipyge. There we may seethe shadowy line of demarcation which separates nearly every woman ofgenius from her sex; there such women are found to have a certainvague similitude to man; they have neither the suppleness nor the softabandonment of those whom Nature destines for maternity; their gait isnot broken by faltering motions. This observation may be calledbi-lateral; it has its counterpart in men, whose thighs are those ofwomen when they are sly, cunning, false, and cowardly. Camille's neck,instead of curving inward at the nape, curves out in a line thatunites the head to the shoulders without sinuosity, a most signalcharacteristic of force. The neck itself presents at certain momentsan athletic magnificence. The spring of the arms from the shoulders,superb in outline, seems to belong to a colossal woman. The arms arevigorously modelled, ending in wrists of English delicacy and charminghands, plump, dimpled, and adorned with rosy, almond-shaped nails;these hands are of a whiteness which reveals that the body, so round,so firm, so well set-up, is of another complexion altogether than theface. The firm, cold carriage of the head is corrected by the mobilityof the lips, their changing expression, and the artistic play of thenostrils.

And yet, in spite of all these promises--hidden, perhaps, from theprofane--the calm of that countenance has something, I know not what,that is vexatious. More sad, more serious than gracious, that face ismarked by the melancholy of constant meditation. For this reasonMademoiselle des Touches listens more than she talks. She startles byher silence and by that deep-reaching glance of intense fixity. Noeducated person could see her without thinking of Cleopatra, that darklittle woman who almost changed the face of the world. But in Camillethe natural animal is so complete, so self-sufficing, of a nature soleonine, that a man, however little of a Turk he may be, regrets thepresence of so great a mind in such a body, and could wish that shewere wholly woman. He fears to find the strange distortion of anabnormal soul. Do not cold analysis and matter-of-fact theory point topassions in such a woman? Does she judge, and not feel? Or, phenomenonmore terrible, does she not feel and judge at one and the same time?Able for all things through her brain, ought her course to becircumscribed by the limitations of other women? Has that intellectualstrength weakened her heart? Has she no charm? Can she descend tothose tender nothings by which a woman occupies, and soothes andinterests the man she loves? Will she not cast aside a sentiment whenit no longer responds to some vision of infinitude which she graspsand contemplates in her soul? Who can scale the heights to which hereyes have risen? Yes, a man fears to find in such a woman somethingunattainable, unpossessable, unconquerable. The woman of strong mindshould remain a symbol; as a reality she must be feared. CamilleMaupin is in some ways the living image of Schiller's Isis, seated inthe darkness of the temple, at whose feet her priests find the deadbodies of the daring men who have consulted her.

The adventures of her life declared to be true by the world, and whichCamille has never disavowed, enforce the questions suggested by herpersonal appearance. Perhaps she likes those calumnies.

The nature of her beauty has not been without its influence on herfame; it has served it, just as her fortune and position havemaintained her in society. If a sculptor desires to make a statue ofBrittany let him take Mademoiselle des Touches for his model. Thatfull-blooded, powerful temperament is the only nature capable ofrepelling the action of time. The constant nourishment of the pulp, soto speak, of that polished skin is an arm given to women by Nature toresist the invasion of wrinkles; in Camille's case it was aided by thecalm impassibility of her features.

In 1817 this charming young woman opened her house to artists, authorsof renown, learned and scientific men, and publicists,--a societytoward which her tastes led her. Her salon resembled that of BaronGerard, where men of rank mingled with men of distinction of allkinds, and the elite of Parisian women came. The parentage ofMademoiselle des Touches, and her fortune, increased by that of heraunt the nun, protected her in the attempt, always very difficult inParis, to create a society. Her worldly independence was one reason ofher success. Various ambitious mothers indulged in the hope ofinducing her to marry their sons, whose fortunes were out ofproportion to the age of their escutcheons. Several peers of France,allured by the prospect of eighty thousand francs a year and a housemagnificently appointed, took their womenkind, even the mostfastidious and intractable, to visit her. The diplomatic world, alwaysin search of amusements of the intellect, came there and foundenjoyment. Thus Mademoiselle des Touches, surrounded by so many formsof individual interests, was able to study the different comedieswhich passion, covetousness, and ambition make the generality of menperform,--even those who are highest in the social scale. She saw,early in life, the world as it is; and she was fortunate enough not tofall early into absorbing love, which warps the mind and faculties ofa woman and prevents her from judging soberly.

Ordinarily a woman feels, enjoys, and judges, successively; hencethree distinct ages, the last of which coincides with the mournfulperiod of old age. In Mademoiselle des Touches this order wasreversed. Her youth was wrapped in the snows of knowledge and the iceof reflection. This transposition is, in truth, an additionalexplanation of the strangeness of her life and the nature of hertalent. She observed men at an age when most women can only see oneman; she despised what other women admired; she detected falsehood inthe flatteries they accept as truths; she laughed at things that madethem serious. This contradiction of her life with that of otherslasted long; but it came to a terrible end; she was destined to findin her soul a first love, young and fresh, at an age when women aresummoned by Nature to renounce all love.

Meantime, a first affair in which she was involved has always remaineda secret from the world. Felicite, like other women, was induced tobelieve that beauty of body was that of soul. She fell in love with aface, and learned, to her cost, the folly of a man of gallantry, whosaw nothing in her but a mere woman. It was some time before sherecovered from the disgust she felt at this episode. Her distress wasperceived by a friend, a man, who consoled her without personal after-thought, or, at any rate, he concealed any such motive if he had it.In him Felicite believed she found the heart and mind which werelacking to her former lover. He did, in truth, possess one of the mostoriginal minds of our age. He, too, wrote under a pseudonym, and hisfirst publications were those of an adorer of Italy. Travel was theone form of education which Felicite lacked. A man of genius, a poetand a critic, he took Felicite to Italy in order to make known to herthat country of all Art. This celebrated man, who is nameless, may beregarded as the master and maker of "Camille Maupin." He bought intoorder and shape the vast amount of knowledge already acquired byFelicite; increased it by study of the masterpieces with which Italyteems; gave her the frankness, freedom, and grace, epigrammatic, andintense, which is the character of his own talent (always ratherfanciful as to form) which Camille Maupin modified by delicacy ofsentiment and the softer terms of thought that are natural to a woman.He also roused in her a taste for German and English literature andmade her learn both languages while travelling. In Rome, in 1820,Felicite was deserted for an Italian. Without that misery she mightnever have been celebrated. Napoleon called misfortune the midwife ofgenius. This event filled Mademoiselle des Touches, and forever, withthat contempt for men which later was to make her so strong. Felicitedied, Camille Maupin was born.

She returned to Paris with Conti, the great musician, for whom shewrote the librettos of two operas. But she had no more illusions, andshe became, at heart, unknown to the world, a sort of female Don Juan,without debts and without conquests. Encouraged by success, shepublished the two volumes of plays which at once placed the name ofCamille Maupin in the list of illustrious anonymas. Next, she relatedher betrayed and deluded love in a short novel, one of themasterpieces of that period. This book, of a dangerous example, wasclassed with "Adolphe," a dreadful lamentation, the counterpart ofwhich is found in Camille's work. The true secret of her literarymetamorphosis and pseudonym has never been fully understood. Somedelicate minds have thought it lay in a feminine desire to escape fameand remain obscure, while offering a man's name and work to criticism.

In spite of any such desire, if she had it, her celebrity increaseddaily, partly through the influence of her salon, partly from her ownwit, the correctness of her judgments, and the solid worth of heracquirements. She became an authority; her sayings were quoted; shecould no longer lay aside at will the functions with which Parisiansociety invested her. She came to be an acknowledged exception. Theworld bowed before the genius and position of this strange woman; itrecognized and sanctioned her independence; women admired her mind,men her beauty. Her conduct was regulated by all social conventions.Her friendships seemed purely platonic. There was, moreover, nothingof the female author about her. Mademoiselle des Touches is charmingas a woman of the world,--languid when she pleases, indolent,coquettish, concerned about her toilet, pleased with the airy nothingsso seductive to women and to poets. She understands very well thatafter Madame de Stael there is no place in this century for a Sappho,and that Ninon could not exist in Paris without /grands seigneurs/ anda voluptuous court. She is the Ninon of the intellect; she adores Artand artists; she goes from the poet to the musician, from the sculptorto the prose-writer. Her heart is noble, endowed with a generositythat makes her a dupe; so filled is she with pity for sorrow,--filledalso with contempt for the prosperous. She has lived since 1830, thecentre of a choice circle, surrounded by tried friends who love hertenderly and esteem each other. Far from the noisy fuss of Madame deStael, far from political strifes, she jokes about Camille Maupin,that junior of George Sand (whom she calls her brother Cain), whoserecent fame has now eclipsed her own. Mademoiselle des Touches admiresher fortunate rival with angelic composure, feeling no jealousy and nosecret vexation.

Until the period when this history begins, she had led as happy a lifeas a woman strong enough to protect herself can be supposed to live.From 1817 to 1834 she had come some five or six times to Les Touches.Her first stay was after her first disillusion in 1818. The house wasuninhabitable, and she sent her man of business to Guerande and took alodging for herself in the village. At that time she had no suspicionof her coming fame; she was sad, she saw no one; she wanted, as itwere, to contemplate herself after her great disaster. She wrote toParis to have the furniture necessary for a residence at Les Touchessent down to her. It came by a vessel to Nantes, thence by small boatsto Croisic, from which little place it was transported, not withoutdifficulty, over the sands to Les Touches. Workmen came down fromParis, and before long she occupied Les Touches, which pleased herimmensely. She wanted to meditate over the events of her life, like acloistered nun.

At the beginning of the winter she returned to Paris. The little townof Guerande was by this time roused to diabolical curiosity; its wholetalk was of the Asiatic luxury displayed at Les Touches. Her man ofbusiness gave orders after her departure that visitors should beadmitted to view the house. They flocked from the village of Batz,from Croisic, and from Savenay, as well as from Guerande. This publiccuriosity brought in an enormous sum to the family of the porter andgardener, not less, in two years, than seventeen francs.

After this, Mademoiselle des Touches did not revisit Les Touches fortwo years, not until her return from Italy. On that occasion she cameby way of Croisic and was accompanied by Conti. It was some timebefore Guerande became aware of her presence. Her subsequentapparitions at Les Touches excited comparatively little interest. HerParisian fame did not precede her; her man of business alone knew thesecret of her writings and of her connection with the celebrity ofCamille Maupin. But at the period of which we are now writing thecontagion of the new ideas had made some progress in Guerande, andseveral persons knew of the dual form of Mademoiselle des Touches'existence. Letters came to the post-office, directed to Camille Maupinat Les Touches. In short, the veil was rent away. In a region soessentially Catholic, archaic, and full of prejudice, the singularlife of this illustrious woman would of course cause rumors, some ofwhich, as we have seen, had reached the ears of the Abbe Grimont andalarmed him; such a life could never be comprehended in Guerande; infact, to every mind, it seemed unnatural and improper.

Felicite, during her present stay, was not alone in Les Touches. Shehad a guest. That guest was Claude Vignon, a scornful and powerfulwriter who, though doing criticism only, has found means to give thepublic and literature the impression of a certain superiority.Mademoiselle des Touches had received this writer for the last sevenyears, as she had so many other authors, journalists, artists, and menof the world. She knew his nerveless nature, his laziness, his utterpenury, his indifference and disgust for all things, and yet by theway she was now conducting herself she seemed inclined to marry him.She explained her conduct, incomprehensible to her friends, in variousways,--by ambition, by the dread she felt of a lonely old age; shewanted to confide her future to a superior man, to whom her fortunewould be a stepping-stone, and thus increase her own importance in theliterary world.

With these apparent intentions she had brought Claude Vignon fromParis to Les Touches, as an eagle bears away a kid in its talons,--tostudy him, and decide upon some positive course. But, in truth, shewas misleading both Calyste and Claude; she was not even thinking ofmarriage; her heart was in the throes of the most violent convulsionthat could agitate a soul as strong as hers. She found herself thedupe of her own mind; too late she saw life lighted by the sun oflove, shining as love shines in a heart of twenty.

Let us now see Camille's convent where this was happening.

VII

LES TOUCHES

A few hundred yards from Guerande the soil of Brittany comes to anend; the salt-marshes and the sandy dunes begin. We descend into adesert of sand, which the sea has left for a margin between herselfand earth, by a rugged road through a ravine that has never seen acarriage. This desert contains waste tracts, ponds of unequal size,round the shores of which the salt is made on muddy banks, and alittle arm of the sea which separates the mainland from the island ofCroisic. Geographically, Croisic is really a peninsula; but as itholds to Brittany only by the beaches which connect it with thevillage of Batz (barren quicksands very difficult to cross), it may bemore correct to call it an island.

At the point where the road from Croisic to Guerande turns off fromthe main road of /terra firma/, stands a country-house, surrounded bya large garden, remarkable for its trimmed and twisted pine-trees,some being trained to the shape of sun-shades, others, stripped oftheir branches, showing their reddened trunks in spots where the barkhas peeled. These trees, victims of hurricanes, growing against windand tide (for them the saying is literally true), prepare the mind forthe strange and depressing sight of the marshes and dunes, whichresemble a stiffened ocean. The house, fairly well built of a speciesof slaty stone with granite courses, has no architecture; it presentsto the eye a plain wall with windows at regular intervals. Thesewindows have small leaded panes on the ground-floor and large panes onthe upper floor. Above are the attics, which stretch the whole lengthof an enormously high pointed roof, with two gables and two largedormer windows on each side of it. Under the triangular point of eachgable a circular window opens its cyclopic eye, westerly to the sea,easterly on Guerande. One facade of the house looks on the road toGuerande, the other on the desert at the end of which is Croisic;beyond that little town is the open sea. A brook escapes through anopening in the park wall which skirts the road to Croisic, crosses theroad, and is lost in the sands beyond it.

The grayish tones of the house harmonize admirably with the scene itoverlooks. The park is an oasis in the surrounding desert, at theentrance of which the traveller comes upon a mud-hut, where thecustom-house officials lie in wait for him. This house without land(for the bulk of the estate is really in Guerande) derives an incomefrom the marshes and a few outlying farms of over ten thousand francsa year. Such is the fief of Les Touches, from which the Revolutionlopped its feudal rights. The /paludiers/, however, continue to callit "the chateau," and they would still say "seigneur" if the fief werenot now in the female line. When Felicite set about restoring LesTouches, she was careful, artist that she is, not to change thedesolate exterior which gives the look of a prison to the isolatedstructure. The sole change was at the gate, which she enlivened by twobrick columns supporting an arch, beneath which carriages pass intothe court-yard where she planted trees.

The arrangement of the ground-floor is that of nearly all countryhouses built a hundred years ago. It was, evidently, erected on theruins of some old castle formerly perched there. A large panelledentrance-hall has been turned by Felicite into a billiard-room; fromit opens an immense salon with six windows, and the dining-room. Thekitchen communicates with the dining-room through an office. Camillehas displayed a noble simplicity in the arrangement of this floor,carefully avoiding all splendid decoration. The salon, painted gray,is furnished in old mahogany with green silk coverings. The furnitureof the dining-room comprises four great buffets, also of mahogany,chairs covered with horsehair, and superb engravings by Audran inmahogany frames. The old staircase, of wood with heavy balusters, iscovered all over with a green carpet.

On the floor above are two suites of rooms separated by the staircase.Mademoiselle des Touches has taken for herself the one that lookstoward the sea and the marshes, and arranged it with a small salon, alarge chamber, and two cabinets, one for a dressing-room, the otherfor a study and writing-room. The other suite, she has made into twoseparate apartments for guests, each with a bedroom, an antechamber,and a cabinet. The servants have rooms in the attic. The rooms forguests are furnished with what is strictly necessary, and no more. Acertain fantastic luxury has been reserved for her own apartment. Inthat sombre and melancholy habitation, looking out upon the sombre andmelancholy landscape, she wanted the most fantastic creations of artthat she could find. The little salon is hung with Gobelin tapestry,framed in marvellously carved oak. The windows are draped with theheavy silken hangings of a past age, a brocade shot with crimson andgold against green and yellow, gathered into mighty pleats and trimmedwith fringes and cords and tassels worthy of a church. This saloncontains a chest or cabinet worth in these days seven or eightthousand francs, a carved ebony table, a secretary with many drawers,inlaid with arabesques of ivory and bought in Venice, with other nobleGothic furniture. Here too are pictures and articles of choiceworkmanship bought in 1818, at a time when no one suspected theultimate value of such treasures. Her bedroom is of the period ofLouis XV. and strictly exact to it. Here we see the carved woodenbedstead painted white, with the arched head-board surmounted byCupids scattering flowers, and the canopy above it adorned withplumes; the hangings of blue silk; the Pompadour dressing-table withits laces and mirror; together with bits of furniture of singularshape,--a "duchesse," a chaise-longue, a stiff little sofa,--withwindow-curtains of silk, like that of the furniture, lined with pinksatin, and caught back with silken ropes, and a carpet of Savonnerie;in short, we find here all those elegant, rich, sumptuous, and daintythings in the midst of which the women of the eighteenth century livedand made love.

The study, entirely of the present day, presents, in contrast with theLouis XV. gallantries, a charming collection of mahogany furniture; itresembles a boudoir; the bookshelves are full, but the fascinatingtrivialities of a woman's existence encumber it; in the midst of whichan inquisitive eye perceives with uneasy surprise pistols, a narghile,a riding-whip, a hammock, a rifle, a man's blouse, tobacco, pipes, aknapsack,--a bizarre combination which paints Felicite.

Every great soul, entering that room, would be struck with thepeculiar beauty of the landscape which spreads its broad savannabeyond the park, the last vegetation on the continent. The melancholysquares of water, divided by little paths of white salt crust, alongwhich the salt-makers pass (dressed in white) to rake up and gatherthe salt into /mulons/; a space which the saline exhalations preventall birds from crossing, stifling thus the efforts of botanic nature;those sands where the eye is soothed only by one little hardypersistent plant bearing rosy flowers and the Chartreux pansy; thatlake of salt water, the sandy dunes, the view of Croisic, a miniaturetown afloat like Venice on the sea; and, finally the mighty oceantossing its foaming fringe upon the granite rocks as if the better tobring out their weird formations--that sight uplifts the mind althoughit saddens it; an effect produced at last by all that is sublime,creating a regretful yearning for things unknown and yet perceived bythe soul on far-off heights. These wild and savage harmonies are forgreat spirits and great sorrows only.

This desert scene, where at times the sun rays, reflected by thewater, by the sands, whitened the village of Batz and rippled on theroofs of Croisic with pitiless brilliancy, filled Camille's dreamingmind for days together. She seldom looked to the cool, refreshingscenes, the groves, the flowery meadows around Guerande. Her soul wasstruggling to endure a horrible inward anguish.

No sooner did Calyste see the vanes of the two gables shooting upbeyond the furze of the roadside and the distorted heads of the pines,than the air seemed lighter; Guerande was a prison to him; his lifewas at Les Touches. Who will not understand the attraction itpresented to a youth in his position. A love like that of Cherubin,had flung him at the feet of a person who was a great and grand thingto him before he thought of her as a woman, and it had survived therepeated and inexplicable refusals of Felicite. This sentiment, whichwas more the need of loving than love itself, had not escaped theterrible power of Camille for analysis; hence, possibly, herrejection,--a generosity unperceived, of course, by Calyste.

At Les Touches were displayed to the ravished eyes of the ignorantyoung countryman, the riches of a new world; he heard, as it were,another language, hitherto unknown to him and sonorous. He listened tothe poetic sounds of the finest music, that surpassing music of thenineteenth century, in which melody and harmony blend or struggle onequal terms,--a music in which song and instrumentation have reached ahitherto unknown perfection. He saw before his eyes the works ofmodern painters, those of the French school, to-day the heir of Italy,Spain, and Flanders, in which talent has become so common that hearts,weary of talent, are calling aloud for genius. He read there thoseworks of imagination, those amazing creations of modern literaturewhich produced their full effect upon his unused heart. In short, thegreat Nineteenth Century appeared to him, in all its collectivemagnificence, its criticising spirit, its desires for renovation inall directions, and its vast efforts, nearly all of them on the scaleof the giant who cradled the infancy of the century in his banners andsang to it hymns with the lullaby of cannon.

Initiated by Felicite into the grandeur of all these things, whichmay, perhaps, escape the eyes of those who work them, Calystegratified at Les Touches the taste for the glorious, powerful at hisage, and that artless admiration, the first love of adolescence, whichis always irritated by criticism. It is so natural that flame shouldrise! He listened to that charming Parisian raillery, that gracefulsatire which revealed to him French wit and the qualities of theFrench mind, and awakened in him a thousand ideas, which might haveslumbered forever in the soft torpor of his family life. For him,Mademoiselle des Touches was the mother of his intellect. She was sokind to him; a woman is always adorable to a man in whom she inspireslove, even when she seems not to share it.

At the present time Felicite was giving him music-lessons. To him thegrand apartments on the lower floor, and her private rooms above, socoquettish, so artistic, were vivified, were animated by a light, aspirit, a supernatural atmosphere, strange and undefinable. The modernworld with its poesy was sharply contrasted with the dull andpatriarchal world of Guerande, in the two systems brought face to facebefore him. On one side all the thousand developments of Art, on theother the sameness of uncivilized Brittany. No one will therefore askwhy the poor lad, bored like his mother with the pleasures of/mouche/, quivered as he approached the house, and rang the bell, andcrossed the court-yard. Such emotions, we may remark, do not assail amature man, trained to the ups and downs of life, whom nothingsurprises, being prepared for all.

As the door opened, Calyste, hearing the sound of the piano, supposedthat Camille was in the salon; but when he entered the billiard-hallhe no longer heard it. Camille, he thought, must be playing on a smallupright piano brought by Conti from England and placed by her in herown little salon. He began to run up the stairs, where the thickcarpet smothered the sound of his steps; but he went more slowly as heneared the top, perceiving something unusual and extraordinary aboutthe music. Felicite was playing for herself only; she was communingwith her own being.

Instead of entering the room, the young man sat down upon a Gothicseat covered with green velvet, which stood on the landing beneath awindow artistically framed in carved woods stained and varnished.Nothing was ever more mysteriously melancholy than Camille'simprovisation; it seemed like the cry of a soul /de profundis/ to God--from the depths of a grave! The heart of the young lover recognizedthe cry of despairing love, the prayer of a hidden plaint, the groanof repressed affliction. Camille had varied, modified, and lengthenedthe introduction to the cavatina: "Mercy for thee, mercy for me!"which is nearly the whole of the fourth act of "Robert le Diable." Shenow suddenly sang the words in a heart-rending manner, and then assuddenly interrupted herself. Calyste entered, and saw the reason.Poor Camille Maupin! poor Felicite! She turned to him a face bathedwith tears, took out her handkerchief and dried them, and said,simply, without affectation, "Good-morning." She was beautiful as shesat there in her morning gown. On her head was one of those redchenille nets, much worn in those days, through which the coils of herblack hair shone, escaping here and there. A short upper garment madelike a Greek peplum gave to view a pair of cambric trousers withembroidered frills, and the prettiest of Turkish slippers, red andgold.

"What is the matter?" cried Calyste.

"He has not returned," she replied, going to a window and looking outupon the sands, the sea and the marshes.

This answer explained all. Camille was awaiting Claude Vignon.

"You are anxious about him?" asked Calyste.

"Yes," she answered, with a sadness the lad was too ignorant toanalyze.

He started to leave the room.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To find him," he replied.

"Dear child!" she said, taking his hand and drawing him toward herwith one of those moist glances which are to a youthful soul the bestof recompenses. "You are distracted! Where could you find him on thatwide shore?"

"I will find him."

"Your mother would be in mortal terror. Stay. Besides, I choose it,"she said, making him sit down upon the sofa. "Don't pity me. The tearsyou see are the tears a woman likes to shed. We have a faculty that isnot in man,--that of abandoning ourselves to our nervous nature anddriving our feelings to an extreme. By imagining certain situationsand encouraging the imagination we end in tears, and sometimes inserious states of illness or disorder. The fancies of women are notthe action of the mind; they are of the heart. You have come just intime; solitude is bad for me. I am not the dupe of his professeddesire to go to Croisic and see the rocks and the dunes and the salt-marshes without me. He meant to leave us alone together; he isjealous, or, rather, he pretends jealousy, and you are young, you arehandsome."

"Why not have told me this before? What must I do? must I stay away?"asked Calyste, with difficulty restraining his tears, one of whichrolled down his cheek and touched Felicite deeply.

"You are an angel!" she cried. Then she gaily sang the "Stay! stay!"of Matilde in "Guillaume Tell," taking all gravity from thatmagnificent answer of the princess to her subject. "He only wants tomake me think he loves me better than he really does," she said. "Heknows how much I desire his happiness," she went on, lookingattentively at Calyste. "Perhaps he feels humiliated to be inferior tome there. Perhaps he has suspicions about you and means to surpriseus. But even if his only crime is to take his pleasure without me, andnot to associate me with the ideas this new place gives him, is notthat enough? Ah! I am no more loved by that great brain than I was bythe musician, by the poet, by the soldier! Sterne is right; namessignify much; mine is a bitter sarcasm. I shall die without finding inany man the love which fills my heart, the poesy that I have in mysoul--"

She stopped, her arms pendant, her head lying back on the cushions,her eyes, stupid with thought, fixed on a pattern of the carpet. Thepain of great minds has something grandiose and imposing about it; itreveals a vast extent of soul which the thought of the spectatorextends still further. Such souls share the privileges of royaltywhose affections belong to a people and so affect a world.

"Why did you reject my--" said Calyste; but he could not end hissentence. Camille's beautiful hand laid upon his eloquentlyinterrupted him.

"Nature changed her laws in granting me a dozen years of youth beyondmy due," she said. "I rejected your love from egotism. Sooner or laterthe difference in our ages must have parted us. I am thirteen yearsolder than /he/, and even that is too much."

"You will be beautiful at sixty," cried Calyste, heroically.

"God grant it," she answered, smiling. "Besides, dear child, I /want/to love. In spite of his cold heart, his lack of imagination, hiscowardly indifference, and the envy which consumes him, I believethere is greatness behind those tatters; I hope to galvanize thatheart, to save him from himself, to attach him to me. Alas! alas! Ihave a clear-seeing mind, but a blind heart."

She was terrible in her knowledge of herself. She suffered andanalyzed her feelings as Cuvier and Dupuytren explained to friends thefatal advance of their disease and the progress that death was makingin their bodies. Camille Maupin knew the passion within her as thosemen of science knew their own anatomy.

"I have brought him here to judge him, and he is already bored," shecontinued. "He pines for Paris, I tell him; the nostalgia of criticismis on him; he has no author to pluck, no system to undermine, no poetto drive to despair, and he dares not commit some debauch in thishouse which might lift for a moment the burden of his ennui. Alas! mylove is not real enough, perhaps, to soothe his brain; I don'tintoxicate him! Make him drunk at dinner to-night and I shall know ifI am right. I will say I am ill, and stay in my own room."

Calyste turned scarlet from his neck to his forehead; even his earswere on fire.

"Oh! forgive me," she cried. "How can I heedlessly deprave yourgirlish innocence! Forgive me, Calyste--" She paused. "There are somesuperb, consistent natures who say at a certain age: 'If I had my lifeto live over again, I would so the same things.' I who do not thinkmyself weak, I say, 'I would be a woman like your mother, Calyste.' Tohave a Calyste, oh! what happiness! I could be a humble and submissivewoman--And yet, I have done no harm except to myself. But alas! dearchild, a woman cannot stand alone in society except it be in what iscalled a primitive state. Affections which are not in harmony withsocial or with natural laws, affections that are not obligatory, inshort, escape us. Suffering for suffering, as well be useful where wecan. What care I for those children of my cousin Faucombe? I have notseen them these twenty years, and they are married to merchants. Youare my son, who have never cost me the miseries of motherhood; I shallleave you my fortune and make you happy--at least, so far as money cando so, dear treasure of beauty and grace that nothing should everchange or blast."

"You would not take my love," said Calyste, "and I shall return yourfortune to your heirs."

"You said you had a history to tell me, and a letter to--" said thegenerous youth, wishing to divert her thoughts from her grief; but shedid not let him finish.

"You are right to remind me of that. I will be an honest woman beforeall else. I will sacrifice no one--Yes, it was too late, yesterday,but to-day we have time," she said, in a cheerful tone. "I will keepmy promise; and while I tell you that history I will sit by the windowand watch the road to the marshes."

Calyste arranged a great Gothic chair for her near the window, andopened one of the sashes. Camille Maupin, who shared the orientaltaste of her illustrious sister-author, took a magnificent Persiannarghile, given to her by an ambassador. She filled the nipple withpatchouli, cleaned the /bochettino/, perfumed the goose-quill, whichshe attached to the mouthpiece and used only once, set fire to theyellow leaves, placing the vase with its long neck enamelled in blueand gold at some distance from her, and rang the bell for tea.

"Will you have cigarettes?--Ah! I am always forgetting that you do notsmoke. Purity such as yours is so rare! The hand of Eve herself, freshfrom the hand of her Maker, is alone innocent enough to stroke yourcheek."

Calyste colored; sitting down on a stool at Camille's feet, he did notsee the deep emotion that seemed for a moment to overcome her.

VIII

LA MARQUISE BEATRIX

"I promised you this tale of the past, and here it is," said Camille."The person from whom I received that letter yesterday, and who may behere to-morrow, is the Marquise de Rochefide. The old marquis (whosefamily is not as old as yours), after marrying his eldest daughter toa Portuguese grandee, was anxious to find an alliance among the highernobility for his son, in order to obtain for him the peerage he hadnever been able to get for himself. The Comtesse de Montcornet toldhim of a young lady in the department of the Orne, a MademoiselleBeatrix-Maximilienne-Rose de Casteran, the youngest daughter of theMarquis de Casteran, who wished to marry his two daughters withoutdowries in order to reserve his whole fortune for the Comte deCasteran, his son. The Casterans are, it seems, of the bluest blood.Beatrix, born and brought up at the chateau de Casteran, was twentyyears old at the time of her marriage in 1828. She was remarkable forwhat you provincials call originality, which is simply independence ofideas, enthusiasm, a feeling for the beautiful, and a certain impulseand ardor toward the things of Art. You may believe a poor woman whohas allowed herself to be drawn along the same lines, there is nothingmore dangerous for a woman. If she follows them, they lead her whereyou see me, and where the marquise came,--to the verge of abysses. Menalone have the staff on which to lean as they skirt those precipices,--a force which is lacking to most women, but which, if we do possessit, makes abnormal beings of us. Her old grandmother, the dowager deCasteran, was well pleased to see her marry a man to whom she wassuperior in every way. The Rochefides were equally satisfied with theCasterans, who connected them with the Verneuils, the d'Esgrignons,the Troisvilles, and gave them a peerage for their son in that lastbig batch of peers made by Charles X., but revoked by the revolutionof July. The first days of marriage are perilous for little minds aswell as for great loves. Rochefide, being a fool, mistook his wife'signorance for coldness; he classed her among frigid, lymphatic women,and made that an excuse to return to his bachelor life, relying on thecoldness of the marquise, her pride, and the thousand barriers thatthe life of a great lady sets up about a woman in Paris. You'll knowwhat I mean when you go there. People said to Rochefide: 'You are verylucky to possess a cold wife who will never have any but headpassions. She will always be content if she can shine; her fancies arepurely artistic, her desires will be satisfied if she can make asalon, and collect about her distinguished minds; her debauches willbe in music and her orgies literary.' Rochefide, however, is not anordinary fool; he has as much conceit and vanity as a clever man,which gives him a mean and squinting jealousy, brutal when it comes tothe surface, lurking and cowardly for six months, and murderous theseventh. He thought he was deceiving his wife, and yet he feared her,--two causes for tyranny when the day came on which the marquise lethim see that she was charitably assuming indifference to hisunfaithfulness. I analyze all this in order to explain her conduct.Beatrix had the keenest admiration for me; there is but one step,however, from admiration to jealousy. I have one of the mostremarkable salons in Paris; she wished to make herself another; and inorder to do so she attempted to draw away my circle. I don't know howto keep those who wish to leave me. She obtained the superficialpeople who are friends with every one from mere want of occupation,and whose object is to get out of a salon as soon as they have enteredit; but she did not have time to make herself a real society. In thosedays I thought her consumed with a desire for celebrity of one kind oranother. Nevertheless, she has really much grandeur of soul, a regalpride, distinct ideas, and a marvellous facility for apprehending andunderstanding all things; she can talk metaphysics and music, theologyand painting. You will see her, as a mature woman, what the rest of ussaw her as a bride. And yet there is something of affectation abouther in all this. She has too much the air of knowing abstruse things,--Chinese, Hebrew, hieroglyphics perhaps, or the papyrus that theywrapped round mummies. Personally, Beatrix is one of those blondesbeside whom Eve the fair would seem a Negress. She is slender andstraight and white as a church taper; her face is long and pointed;the skin is capricious, to-day like cambric, to-morrow darkened withlittle speckles beneath its surface, as if her blood had left adeposit of dust there during the night. Her forehead is magnificent,though rather daring. The pupils of her eyes are pale sea-green,floating on their white balls under thin lashes and lazy eyelids. Hereyes have dark rings around them often; her nose, which describes one-quarter of a circle, is pinched about the nostrils; very shrewd andclever, but supercilious. She has an Austrian mouth; the upper lip hasmore character than the lower, which drops disdainfully. Her palecheeks have no color unless some very keen emotion moves her. Her chinis rather fat; mine is not thin, and perhaps I do wrong to tell youthat women with fat chins are exacting in love. She has one of themost exquisite waists I ever saw; the shoulders are beautiful, but thebust has not developed as well, and the arms are thin. She has,however, an easy carriage and manner, which redeems all such defectsand sets her beauties in full relief. Nature has given her thatprincess air which can never be acquired; it becomes her, and revealsat sudden moments the woman of high birth. Without being faultlesslybeautiful, or prettily pretty, she produces, when she chooses,ineffaceable impressions. She has only to put on a gown of cherryvelvet with clouds of lace, and wreathe with roses that angelic hairof hers, which resembles floods of light, and she becomes divine. If,on some excuse or other, she could wear the costume of the time whenwomen had long, pointed bodices, rising, slim and slender, fromvoluminous brocaded skirts with folds so heavy that they stood alone,and could hide her arms in those wadded sleeves with ruffles, fromwhich the hand comes out like a pistil from a calyx, and could flingback the curls of her head into the jewelled knot behind her head,Beatrix would hold her own victoriously with ideal beauties like/that/--"

And Felicite showed Calyste a fine copy of a picture by Mieris, inwhich was a woman robed in white satin, standing with a paper in herhand, and singing with a Brabancon seigneur, while a Negro beside thempoured golden Spanish wine into a goblet, and the old housekeeper inthe background arranged some biscuits.

"Fair women, blonds," said Camille, "have the advantage over us poorbrown things of a precious diversity; there are a hundred ways for ablonde to charm, and only one for a brunette. Besides, blondes aremore womanly; we are too like men, we French brunettes--Well, well!"she cried, "pray don't fall in love with Beatrix from the portrait Iam making of her, like that prince, I forget his name, in the ArabianNights. You would be too late, my dear boy."

These words were said pointedly. The admiration depicted on the youngman's face was more for the picture than for the painter whose /faire/was failing of its purpose. As she spoke, Felicite was employing allthe resources of her eloquent physiognomy.

"Blond as she is, however," she went on, "Beatrix has not the grace ofher color; her lines are severe; she is elegant, but hard; her facehas a harsh contour, though at times it reveals a soul with Southernpassions; an angel flashes out and then expires. Her eyes are thirsty.She looks best when seen full face; the profile has an air of beingsqueezed between two doors. You will see if I am mistaken. I will tellyou now what made us intimate friends. For three years, from 1828 to1831, Beatrix, while enjoying the last fetes of the Restoration,making the round of the salons, going to court, taking part in thefancy-balls of the Elysee-Bourbon, was all the while judging men, andthings, events, and life itself, from the height of her own thought.Her mind was busy. These first years of the bewilderment the worldcaused her prevented her heart from waking up. From 1830 to 1831 shespent the time of the revolutionary disturbance at her husband'scountry-place, where she was bored like a saint in paradise. On herreturn to Paris she became convinced, perhaps justly, that therevolution of July, in the minds of some persons purely political,would prove to be a moral revolution. The social class to which shebelonged, not being able, during its unhoped-for triumph in thefifteen years of the Restoration to reconstruct itself, was about togo to pieces, bit by bit, under the battering-ram of the bourgeoisie.She heard the famous words of Monsieur Laine: 'Kings are departing!'This conviction, I believe was not without its influence on herconduct. She took an intellectual part in the new doctrines, whichswarmed, during the three years succeeding July, 1830, like gnats inthe sunshine, and turned some female heads. But, like all nobles,Beatrix, while thinking these novel ideals superb, wanted always toprotect the nobility. Finding before long that there was no place inthis new regime for individual superiority, seeing that the highernobility were beginning once more the mute opposition it had formerlymade to Napoleon,--which was, in truth, its wisest course under anempire of deeds and facts, but which in an epoch of moral causes wasequivalent to abdication,--she chose personal happiness rather thansuch eclipse. About the time we were all beginning to breathe again,Beatrix met at my house a man with whom I had expected to end my days,--Gennaro Conti, the great composer, a man of Neapolitan origin,though born in Marseilles. Conti has a brilliant mind; as a composerhe has talent, though he will never attain to the first rank. WithoutRossini, without Meyerbeer, he might perhaps have been taken for a manof genius. He has one advantage over those men,--he is in vocal musicwhat Paganini is on the violin, Liszt on the piano, Taglioni in theballet, and what the famous Garat was; at any rate he recalls thatgreat singer to those who knew him. His is not a voice, my friend, itis a soul. When its song replies to certain ideas, certain states offeeling difficult to describe in which a woman sometimes findsherself, that woman is lost. The marquise conceived the maddestpassion for him, and took him from me. The act was provincial, Iallow, but it was all fair play. She won my esteem and friendship bythe way she behaved to me. She thought me a woman who was likely todefend her own; she did not know that to me the most ridiculous thingin the world is such a struggle. She came to see me. That woman, proudas she is, was so in love that she told me her secret and made me thearbiter of her destiny. She was really adorable, and she kept herplace as woman and as marquise in my eyes. I must tell you, dearfriend, that while women are sometimes bad, they have hidden grandeursin their souls that men can never appreciate. Well, as I seem to bemaking my last will and testament like a woman on the verge of oldage, I shall tell you that I was ever faithful to Conti, and shouldhave been till death, and yet I /know him/. His nature is charming,apparently, and detestable beneath its surface. He is a charlatan inmatters of the heart. There are some men, like Nathan, of whom I havealready spoken to you, who are charlatans externally, and yet honest.Such men lie to themselves. Mounted on their stilts, they think theyare on their feet, and perform their jugglery with a sort ofinnocence; their humbuggery is in their blood; they are borncomedians, braggarts; extravagant in form as a Chinese vase; perhapsthey even laugh at themselves. Their personality is generous; likeMurat's kingly garments, it attracts danger. But Conti's duplicitywill be known only to the women who love him. In his art he has thatdeep Italian jealousy which led the Carlone to murder Piola, and stucka stiletto into Paesiello. That terrible envy lurks beneath thewarmest comradeship. Conti has not the courage of his vice; he smilesat Meyerbeer and flatters him, when he fain would tear him to bits. Heknows his weakness, and cultivates an appearance of sincerity; hisvanity still further leads him to play at sentiments which are farindeed from his real heart. He represents himself as an artist whoreceives his inspirations from heaven; Art is something saintly andsacred to him; he is fanatic; he is sublime in his contempt forworldliness; his eloquence seems to come from the deepest convictions.He is a seer, a demon, a god, an angel. Calyste, although I warn youabout him, you will be his dupe. That Southern nature, thatimpassioned artist is cold as a well-rope. Listen to him: the artistis a missionary. Art is a religion, which has its priests and ought tohave its martyrs. Once started on that theme, Gennaro reaches the mostdishevelled pathos that any German professor of philosophy everspluttered to his audience. You admire his convictions, but he hasn'tany. Bearing his hearers to heaven on a song which seems a mysteriousfluid shedding love, he casts an ecstatic glance upon them; he isexamining their enthusiasm; he is asking himself: 'Am I really a godto them?' and he is also thinking: 'I ate too much macaroni to-day.'He is insatiable of applause, and he wins it. He delights, he isbeloved; he is admired whensoever he will. He owes his success more tohis voice than to his talent as a composer, though he would rather bea man of genius like Rossini than a performer like Rubini. I hadcommitted the folly of attaching myself to him, and I was determinedand resigned to deck this idol to the end. Conti, like a great manyartists, is dainty in all his ways; he likes his ease, his enjoyments;he is always carefully, even elegantly dressed. I do respect hiscourage; he is brave; bravery, they say, is the only virtue into whichhypocrisy cannot enter. While we were travelling I saw his couragetested; he risked the life he loved; and yet, strange contradiction! Ihave seen him, in Paris, commit what I call the cowardice of thought.My friend, all this was known to me. I said to the poor marquise: 'Youdon't know into what a gulf you are plunging. You are the Perseus of apoor Andromeda; you release me from my rock. If he loves you, so muchthe better! but I doubt it; he loves no one but himself.' Gennaro wastransported to the seventh heaven of pride. I was not a marquise, Iwas not born a Casteran, and he forgot me in a day. I then gave myselfthe savage pleasure of probing that nature to the bottom. Certain ofthe result, I wanted to see the twistings and turnings Conti wouldperform. My dear child, I saw in one week actual horrors of shamsentiment, infamous buffooneries of feeling. I will not tell you aboutthem; you shall see the man here in a day or two. He now knows that Iknow him, and he hates me accordingly. If he could stab me with safetyto himself I shouldn't be alive two seconds. I have never said oneword of all this to Beatrix. The last and constant insult Gerannooffers me is to suppose that I am capable of communicating my sadknowledge of him to her; but he has no belief in the good feeling ofany human being. Even now he is playing a part with me; he is posingas a man who is wretched at having left me. You will find what I maycall the most penetrating cordiality about him; he is winning; he ischivalrous. To him, all women are madonnas. One must live with himlong before we get behind the veil of this false chivalry and learnthe invisible signs of his humbug. His tone of conviction abouthimself might almost deceive the Deity. You will be entrapped, my dearchild, by his catlike manners, and you will never believe in theprofound and rapid arithmetic of his inmost thought. But enough; letus leave him. I pushed indifference so far as to receive them togetherin my house. This circumstance kept that most perspicacious of allsocieties, the great world of Paris, ignorant of the affair. Thoughintoxicated with pride, Gennaro was compelled to dissimulate; and hedid it admirably. But violent passions will have their freedom at anycost. Before the end of the year, Beatrix whispered in my ear oneevening: 'My dear Felicite, I start to-morrow for Italy with Conti.' Iwas not surprised; she regarded herself as united for life to Gennaro,and she suffered from the restraints imposed upon her; she escaped oneevil by rushing into a greater. Conti was wild with happiness,--thehappiness of vanity alone. 'That's what it is to love truly,' he saidto me. 'How many women are there who would sacrifice their lives,their fortune, their reputation?'--'Yes, she loves you,' I replied,'but you do not love her.' He was furious, and made me a scene; hestormed, he declaimed, he depicted his love, declaring that he hadnever supposed it possible to love as much. I remained impassible, andlent him money for his journey, which, being unexpected, found himunprepared. Beatrix left a letter for her husband and started the nextday for Italy. There she has remained two years; she has written to meseveral times, and her letters are enchanting. The poor child attachesherself to me as the only woman who will comprehend her. She says sheadores me. Want of money has compelled Gennaro to accept an offer towrite a French opera; he does not find in Italy the pecuniary gainswhich composers obtain in Paris. Here's the letter I receivedyesterday from Beatrix. Take it and read it; you can now understandit,--that is, if it is possible, at your age, to analyze the things ofthe heart."

So saying, she held out the letter to him.

At this moment Claude Vignon entered the room. At his unexpectedapparition Calyste and Felicite were both silent for a moment,--shefrom surprise, he from a vague uneasiness. The vast forehead, broadand high, of the new-comer, who was bald at the age of thirty-seven,now seemed darkened by annoyance. His firm, judicial mouth expressed ahabit of chilling sarcasm. Claude Vignon is imposing, in spite of theprecocious deteriorations of a face once magnificent, and now grownhaggard. Between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five he stronglyresembled the divine Raffaelle. But his nose, that feature of thehuman face that changes most, is growing to a point; the countenanceis sinking into mysterious depressions, the outlines are thickening;leaden tones predominate in the complexion, giving tokens ofweariness, although the fatigues of this young man are not apparent;perhaps some bitter solitude has aged him, or the abuse of his gift ofcomprehension. He scrutinizes the thought of every one, yet withoutdefinite aim or system. The pickaxe of his criticism demolishes, itnever constructs. Thus his lassitude is that of a mechanic, not of anarchitect. The eyes, of a pale blue, once brilliant, are clouded nowby some hidden pain, or dulled by gloomy sadness. Excesses have laiddark tints above the eyelids; the temples have lost their freshness.The chin, of incomparable distinction, is getting doubled, but withoutdignity. His voice, never sonorous, is weakening; without being eitherhoarse or extinct, it touches the confines of hoarseness andextinction. The impassibility of that fine head, the fixity of thatglance, cover irresolution and weakness, which the keenly intelligentand sarcastic smile belies. The weakness lies wholly in action, not inthought; there are traces of an encyclopedic comprehension on thatbrow, and in the habitual movement of a face that is childlike andsplendid both. The man is tall, slightly bent already, like all thosewho bear the weight of a world of thought. Such long, tall bodies arenever remarkable for continuous effort or creative activity.Charlemagne, Belisarious, and Constantine are noted exceptions to thisrule.

Certainly Claude Vignon presents a variety of mysteries to be solved.In the first place, he is very simple and very wily. Though he fallsinto excesses with the readiness of a courtesan, his powers of thoughtremain untouched. Yet his intellect, which is competent to criticiseart, science, literature, and politics, is incompetent to guide hisexternal life. Claude contemplates himself within the domain of hisintellectual kingdom, and abandons his outer man with Diogenicindifference. Satisfied to penetrate all, to comprehend all bythought, he despises materialities; and yet, if it becomes a questionof creating, doubt assails him; he sees obstacles, he is not inspiredby beauties, and while he is debating means, he sits with his armspendant, accomplishing nothing. He is the Turk of the intellect madesomnolent by meditation. Criticism is his opium; his harem of books toread disgusts him with real work. Indifferent to small things as wellas great things, he is sometimes compelled, by the very weight of hishead, to fall into a debauch, and abdicate for a few hours the fatalpower of omnipotent analysis. He is far too preoccupied with the wrongside of genius, and Camille Maupin's desire to put him back on theright side is easily conceivable. The task was an attractive one.Claude Vignon thinks himself a great politician as well as a greatwriter; but this unpublished Machiavelli laughs within himself at allambitions; he knows what he can do; he has instinctively taken themeasure of his future on his faculties; he sees his greatness, but healso sees obstacles, grows alarmed or disgusted, lets the time rollby, and does not go to work. Like Etienne Lousteau the feuilletonist,like Nathan the dramatic author, like Blondet, another journalist, hecame from the ranks of the bourgeoisie, to which we owe the greaternumber of our writers.

"Which way did you come?" asked Mademoiselle des Touches, coloringwith either pleasure or surprise.'

"By the door," replied Claude Vignon, dryly.

"Oh," she cried, shrugging her shoulders, "I am aware that you are nota man to climb in by a window."

"Scaling a window is a badge of honor for a beloved woman."

"Enough!" said Felicite.

"Am I in the way?" asked Claude.

"Monsieur," said Calyste, artlessly, "this letter--"

"Pray keep it; I ask no questions; at our age we understand suchaffairs," he answered, interrupting Calyste with a sardonic air.

"But, monsieur," began Calyste, much provoked.

"Calm yourself, young man; I have the utmost indulgence forsentiments."

"My dear Calyste," said Camille, wishing to speak.

"'Dear'?" said Vignon, interrupting her.

"Claude is joking," said Camille, continuing her remarks to Calyste."He is wrong to do it with you, who know nothing of Parisian ways."

"I did not know that I was joking," said Claude Vignon, very gravely.

"Which way did you come?" asked Felicite again. "I have been watchingthe road to Croisic for the last two hours."

"Not all the time," replied Vignon.

"You are too bad to jest in this way."

"Am I jesting?"

Calyste rose.

"Why should you go so soon? You are certainly at your ease here," saidVignon.

"Quite the contrary," replied the angry young Breton, to whom CamilleMaupin stretched out a hand, which he took and kissed, dropping a tearupon it, after which he took his leave.

"I should like to be that little young man," said the critic, sittingdown, and taking one end of the hookah. "How he will love!"

"Too much; for then he will not be loved in return," repliedMademoiselle des Touches. "Madame de Rochefide is coming here," sheadded.

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Claude. "With Conti?"

"She will stay here alone, but he accompanies her."

"Have they quarrelled?"

"No."

"Play me a sonata of Beethoven's; I know nothing of the music he wrotefor the piano."

Claude began to fill the tube of the hookah with Turkish tobacco, allthe while examining Camille much more attentively than she observed. Adreadful thought oppressed him; he fancied he was being used for ablind by this woman. The situation was a novel one.

Calyste went home thinking no longer of Beatrix de Rochefide and herletter; he was furious against Claude Vignon for what he consideredthe utmost indelicacy, and he pitied poor Felicite. How was itpossible to be beloved by that sublime creature and not adore her onhis knees, not believe her on the faith of a glance or a smile? Hefelt a desire to turn and rend that cold, pale spectre of a man.Ignorant he might be, as Felicite had told him, of the tricks ofthought of the jesters of the press, but one thing he knew--Love wasthe human religion.

When his mother saw him entering the court-yard she uttered anexclamation of joy, and Zephirine whistled for Mariotte.

"Mariotte, the boy is coming! cook the fish!"

"I see him, mademoiselle," replied the woman.

Fanny, uneasy at the sadness she saw on her son's brow, picked up herworsted-work; the old aunt took out her knitting. The baron gave hisarm-chair to his son and walked about the room, as if to stretch hislegs before going out to take a turn in the garden. No Flemish orDutch picture ever presented an interior in tones more mellow, peopledwith faces and forms so harmoniously blending. The handsome young manin his black velvet coat, the mother, still so beautiful, and the agedbrother and sister framed by that ancient hall, were a moving domesticharmony.

Fanny would fain have questioned Calyste, but he had already pulled aletter from his pocket,--that letter of the Marquise Beatrix, whichwas, perhaps, destined to destroy the happiness of this noble family.As he unfolded it, Calyste's awakened imagination showed him themarquise dressed as Camille Maupin had fancifully depicted her.

From the Marquise de Rochefide to Mademoiselle des Touches.

Genoa, July 2.

I have not written to you since our stay in Florence, my dear friend, for Venice and Rome have absorbed my time, and, as you know, happiness occupies a large part of life; so far, we have neither of us dropped from its first level. I am a little fatigued; for when one has a soul not easy to /blaser/, the constant succession of enjoyments naturally causes lassitude.

Our friend has had a magnificent triumph at the Scala and the Fenice, and now at the San Carlo. Three Italian operas in two years! You cannot say that love has made him idle. We have been warmly received everywhere,--though I myself would have preferred solitude and silence. Surely that is the only suitable manner of life for women who have placed themselves in direct opposition to society? I expected such a life; but love, my dear friend, is a more exacting master than marriage,--however, it is sweet to obey him; though I did not think I should have to see the world again, even by snatches, and the attentions I receive are so many stabs. I am no longer on a footing of equality with the highest rank of women; and the more attentions are paid to me, the more my inferiority is made apparent.

Gennaro could not comprehend this sensitiveness; but he has been so happy that it would ill become me not to have sacrificed my petty vanity to that great and noble thing,--the life of an artist. We women live by love, whereas men live by love and action; otherwise they would not be men. Still, there are great disadvantages for a woman in the position in which I have put myself. You have escaped them; you continue to be a person in the eyes of the world, which has no rights over you; you have your own free will, and I have lost mine. I am speaking now of the things of the heart, not those of social life, which I have utterly renounced. You can be coquettish and self-willed, and have all the graces of a woman who loves, a woman who can give or refuse her love as she pleases; you have kept the right to have caprices, in the interests even of your love. In short, to-day you still possess your right of feeling, while I, I have no longer any liberty of heart, which I think precious to exercise in love, even though the love itself may be eternal. I have no right now to that privilege of quarrelling in jest to which so many women cling, and justly; for is it not the plummet line with which to sound the hearts of men? I have no threat at my command. I must draw my power henceforth from obedience, from unlimited gentleness; I must make myself imposing by the greatness of my love. I would rather die than leave Gennaro, and my pardon lies in the sanctity of my love. Between social dignity and my petty personal dignity, I did right not to hesitate. If at times I have a few melancholy feelings, like clouds that pass through a clear blue sky, and to which all women like to yield themselves, I keep silence about them; they might seem like regrets. Ah me! I have so fully understood the obligations of my position that I have armed myself with the utmost indulgence; but so far, Gennaro has not alarmed my susceptible jealousy. I don't as yet see where that dear great genius may fail.

Dear angel, I am like those pious souls who argue with their God, for are not you my Providence? do I not owe my happiness to you? You must never doubt, therefore, that you are constantly in my thoughts.

I have seen Italy at last; seen it as you saw it, and as it ought to be seen,--lighted to our souls by love, as it is by its own bright sun and its masterpieces. I pity those who, being moved to adoration at every step, have no hand to press, no heart in which to shed the exuberance of emotions which calm themselves when shared. These two years have been to me a lifetime, in which my memory has stored rich harvests. Have you made plans, as I do, to stay forever at Chiavari, to buy a palazzo in Venice, a summer- house at Sorrento, a villa in Florence? All loving women dread society; but I, who am cast forever outside of it, ought I not to bury myself in some beautiful landscape, on flowery slopes, facing the sea, or in a valley that equals a sea, like that of Fiesole?

But alas! we are only poor artists, and want of money is bringing these two bohemians back to Paris. Gennaro does not want me to feel that I have lost my luxury, and he wishes to put his new work, a grand opera, into rehearsal at once. You will understand, of course, my dearest, that I cannot set foot in Paris. I could not, I would not, even if it costs me my love, meet one of those glances of women, or of men, which would make me think of murder or suicide. Yes, I could hack in pieces whoever insulted me with pity; like Chateauneuf, who, in the time of Henri III., I think, rode his horse at the Provost of Paris for a wrong of that kind, and trampled him under hoof.

I write, therefore, to say that I shall soon pay you a visit at Les Touches. I want to stay there, in that Chartreuse, while awaiting the success of our Gennaro's opera. You will see that I am bold with my benefactress, my sister; but I prove, at any rate, that the greatness of obligations laid upon me has not led me, as it does so many people, to ingratitude. You have told me so much of the difficulties of the land journey that I shall go to Croisic by water. This idea came to me on finding that there is a little Danish vessel now here, laden with marble, which is to touch at Croisic for a cargo of salt on its way back to the Baltic. I shall thus escape the fatigue and the cost of the land journey. Dear Felicite, you are the only person with whom I could be alone without Conti. Will it not be some pleasure to have a woman with you who understands your heart as fully as you do hers?

Adieu, /a bientot/. The wind is favorable, and I set sail, wafting you a kiss.

Beatrix.

"Ah! she loves, too!" thought Calyste, folding the letter sadly.

That sadness flowed to the heart of the mother as if some gleam hadlighted up a gulf to her. The baron had gone out; Fanny went to thedoor of the tower and pushed the bolt, then she returned, and leanedupon the back of her boy's chair, like the sister of Dido in Guerin'spicture, and said,--

"What is it, my Calyste? what makes you so sad? You promised toexplain to me these visits to Les Touches; I am to bless its mistress,--at least, you said so."

"Yes, indeed you will, dear mother," he replied. "She has shown me theinsufficiency of my education at an epoch when the nobles ought topossess a personal value in order to give life to their rank. I was asfar from the age we live in as Guerande is from Paris. She has been,as it were, the mother of my intellect."

"I cannot bless her for that," said the baroness, with tears in hereyes.

"Mamma!" cried Calyste, on whose forehead those hot tears fell, twopearls of sorrowful motherhood, "mamma, don't weep! Just now, when Iwanted to do her a service, and search the country round, she said,'It will make your mother so uneasy.'"

"Did she say that? Then I can forgive her many things," replied Fanny.

"Felicite thinks only of my good," continued Calyste. "She oftenchecks the lively, venturesome language of artists so as not to shakeme in a faith which is, though she knows it not, unshakable. She hastold me of the life in Paris of several young men of the highestnobility coming from their provinces, as I might do,--leaving familieswithout fortune, but obtaining in Paris, by the power of their willand their intellect, a great career. I can do what the Baron deRastignac, now a minister of State, has done. Felicite has taught me;I read with her; she gives me lessons on the piano; she is teaching meItalian; she has initiated me into a thousand social secrets, aboutwhich no one in Guerande knows anything at all. She could not give methe treasures of her love, but she has given me those of her vastintellect, her mind, her genius. She does not want to be a pleasure,but a light to me; she lessens not one of my faiths; she herself hasfaith in the nobility, she loves Brittany, she--"

"She has changed our Calyste," said his blind old aunt, interruptinghim. "I do not understand one word he has been saying. You have asolid roof over your head, my good nephew; you have parents andrelations who adore you, and faithful servants; you can marry somegood little Breton girl, religious and accomplished, who will make youhappy. Reserve your ambitions for your eldest son, who may be fourtimes as rich as you, if you choose to live tranquilly, thriftily, inobscurity,--but in the peace of God,--in order to release the burdenson your estate. It is all as simple as a Breton heart. You will be,not so rapidly perhaps, but more solidly, a rich nobleman."

"Your aunt is right, my darling; she plans for your happiness with asmuch anxiety as I do myself. If I do not succeed in marrying you to myniece, Margaret, the daughter of your uncle, Lord Fitzwilliam, it isalmost certain that Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel will leave her fortune towhichever of her nieces you may choose."

"And besides, there's a little gold to be found here," added the oldaunt in a low voice, with a mysterious glance about her.

"Marry! at my age!" he said, casting on his mother one of those lookswhich melt the arguments of mothers. "Am I to live without mybeautiful fond loves? Must I never tremble or throb or fear or gasp,or lie beneath implacable looks and soften them? Am I never to knowbeauty in its freedom, the fantasy of the soul, the clouds that coursethrough the azure of happiness, which the breath of pleasuredissipates? Ah! shall I never wander in those sweet by-paths moistwith dew; never stand beneath the drenching of a gutter and not knowit rains, like those lovers seen by Diderot; never take, like the Ducde Lorraine, a live coal in my hand? Are there no silken ladders forme, no rotten trellises to cling to and not fall? Shall I know nothingof woman but conjugal submission; nothing of love but the flame of itslamp-wick? Are my longings to be satisfied before they are roused?Must I live out my days deprived of that madness of the heart thatmakes a man and his power? Would you make me a married monk? No! Ihave eaten of the fruit of Parisian civilization. Do you not see thatyou have, by the ignorant morals of this family, prepared the firethat consumes me, that /will/ consume me utterly, unless I can adorethe divineness I see everywhere,--in those sands gleaming in the sun,in the green foliage, in all the women, beautiful, noble, elegant,pictured in the books and in the poems I have read with Camille? Alas!there is but one such woman in Guerande, and it is you, my mother! Thebirds of my beautiful dream, they come from Paris, they fly from thepages of Scott, of Byron,--Parisina, Effie, Minna! yes, and that royalduchess, whom I saw on the moors among the furze and the ferns, whosevery aspect sent the blood to my heart."

The baroness saw these thoughts flaming in the eyes of her son,clearer, more beautiful, more living than art can tell to those whoread them. She grasped them rapidly, flung to her as they were inglances like arrows from an upset quiver. Without having readBeaumarchais, she felt, as other women would have felt, that it wouldbe a crime to marry Calyste.

"Oh! my child!" she said, taking him in her arms, and kissing thebeautiful hair that was still hers, "marry whom you will, and when youwill, but be happy! My part in life is not to hamper you."

Mariotte came to lay the table. Gasselin was out exercising Calyste'shorse, which the youth had not mounted for two months. The threewomen, mother, aunt, and Mariotte, shared in the tender femininewiliness, which taught them to make much of Calyste when he dined athome. Breton plainness fought against Parisian luxury, now brought tothe very doors of Guerande. Mariotte endeavored to wean her youngmaster from the accomplished service of Camille Maupin's kitchen, justas his mother and aunt strove to hold him in the net of theirtenderness and render all comparison impossible.

"There's a salmon-trout for dinner, Monsieur Calyste, and snipe, andpancakes such as I know you can't get anywhere but here," saidMariotte, with a sly, triumphant look as she smoothed the cloth, acascade of snow.

After dinner, when the old aunt had taken up her knitting, and therector and Monsieur du Halga had arrived, allured by their precious/mouche/, Calyste went back to Les Touches on the pretext of returningthe letter.

Claude Vignon and Felicite were still at table. The great critic wassomething of a gourmand, and Felicite pampered the vice, knowing howindispensable a woman makes herself by such compliance. The dinner-table presented that rich and brilliant aspect which modern luxury,aided by the perfecting of handicrafts, now gives to its service. Thepoor and noble house of Guenic little knew with what an adversary itwas attempting to compete, or what amount of fortune was necessary toenter the lists against the silverware, the delicate porcelain, thebeautiful linen, the silver-gilt service brought from Paris byMademoiselle des Touches, and the science of her cook. Calystedeclined the liqueurs contained in one of those superb cases ofprecious woods, which are something like tabernacles.

"Here's the letter," he said, with innocent ostentation, looking atClaude, who was slowly sipping a glass of /liqueur-des-iles/.

"Well, what did you think of it?" asked Mademoiselle des Touches,throwing the letter across the table to Vignon, who began to read it,taking up and putting down at intervals his little glass.

"I thought--well, that Parisian women were very fortunate to have menof genius to adore who adore them."

"Ah! you are still in your village," said Felicite, laughing. "What!did you not see that she loves him less, and--"

"That is evident," said Claude Vignon, who had only read the firstpage. "Do people reason on their situation when they really love; arethey as shrewd as the marquise, as observing, as discriminating? Yourdear Beatrix is held to Conti now by pride only; she is condemned tolove him /quand meme/."

"Poor woman!" said Camille.

Calyste's eyes were fixed on the table; he saw nothing about him. Thebeautiful woman in the fanciful dress described that morning byFelicite appeared to him crowned with light; she smiled to him, shewaved her fan; the other hand, issuing from its ruffle of lace, fellwhite and pure on the heavy folds of her crimson velvet robe.

"She is just the thing for you," said Claude Vignon, smilingsardonically at Calyste.

The young man was deeply wounded by the words, and by the manner inwhich they were said.

"Don't put such ideas into Calyste's mind; you don't know howdangerous such jokes may prove to be," said Mademoiselle des Touches,hastily. "I know Beatrix, and there is something too grandiose in hernature to allow her to change. Besides, Conti will be here."

"Why," said Felicite, as if to break up the discussion, "do young menlike my Calyste, begin by loving women of a certain age?"

"I don't know any sentiment more artless or more generous," repliedVignon. "It is the natural consequence of the adorable qualities ofyouth. Besides, how would old women end if it were not for such love?You are young and beautiful, and will be for twenty years to come, soI can speak of this matter before you," he added, with a keen look atMademoiselle des Touches. "In the first place the semi-dowagers, towhom young men pay their first court, know much better how to makelove than younger women. An adolescent youth is too like a young womanhimself for a young woman to please him. Such a passion trenches onthe fable of Narcissus. Besides that feeling of repugnance, there is,as I think, a mutual sense of inexperience which separates them. Thereason why the hearts of young women are only understood by maturemen, who conceal their cleverness under a passion real or feigned, isprecisely the same (allowing for the difference of minds) as thatwhich renders a woman of a certain age more adroit in attractingyouth. A young man feels that he is sure to succeed with her, and thevanities of the woman are flattered by his suit. Besides, isn't itnatural for youth to fling itself on fruits? The autumn of a woman'slife offers many that are very toothsome,--those looks, for instance,bold, and yet reserved, bathed with the last rays of love, so warm, sosweet; that all-wise elegance of speech, those magnificent shoulders,so nobly developed, the full and undulating outline, the dimpledhands, the hair so well arranged, so cared for, that charming nape ofthe neck, where all the resources of art are displayed to exhibit thecontrast between the hair and the flesh-tones, and to set in fullrelief the exuberance of life and love. Brunettes themselves are fairat such times, with the amber colors of maturity. Besides, such womenreveal in their smiles and display in their words a knowledge of theworld; they know how to converse; they can call up the whole of sociallife to make a lover laugh; their dignity and their pride arestupendous; or, in other moods, they can utter despairing cries whichtouch his soul, farewells of love which they take care to renderuseless, and only make to intensify his passion. Their devotions areabsolute; they listen to us; they love us; they catch, they cling tolove as a man condemned to death clings to the veriest trifles ofexistence,--in short, love, absolute love, is known only through them.I think such women can never be forgotten by a man, any more than hecan forget what is grand and sublime. A young woman has a thousanddistractions; these women have none. No longer have they self-love,pettiness, or vanity; their love--it is the Loire at its mouth, it isvast, it is swelled by all the illusions, all the affluents of life,and this is why--but my muse is dumb," he added, observing theecstatic attitude of Mademoiselle des Touches, who was pressingCalyste's hand with all her strength, perhaps to thank him for havingbeen the occasion of such a moment, of such an eulogy, so lofty thatshe did not see the trap that it laid for her.

During the rest of the evening Claude Vignon and Felicite sparkledwith wit and happy sayings; they told anecdotes, and describedParisian life to Calyste, who was charmed with Claude, for mind hasimmense seductions for persons who are all heart.

"I shouldn't be surprised to see the Marquise de Rochefide and Conti,who, of course, will accompany her, at the landing-place to-morrow,"said Claude Vignon, as the evening ended. "When I was at Croisic thisafternoon, the fishermen were saying that they had seen a littlevessel, Danish, Swedish, or Norwegian, in the offing."

This speech brought a flush to the cheeks of the impassible Camille.

Again Madame du Guenic sat up till one o'clock that night, waiting forher son, unable to imagine why he should stay so late if Mademoiselledes Touches did not love him.

"He must be in their way," said this adorable mother. "What were youtalking about?" she asked, when at last he came in.

"Oh, mother, I have never before spent such a delightful evening.Genius is a great, a sublime thing! Why didn't you give me genius?With genius we can make our lives, we can choose among all women thewoman to love, and she must be ours."

"How handsome you are, my Calyste!"

"Claude Vignon is handsome. Men of genius have luminous foreheads andeyes, through which the lightnings flash--but I, alas! I know nothing--only to love."

"They say that suffices, my angel," she said, kissing him on theforehead.

"Do you believe it?"

"They say so, but I have never known it."

Calyste kissed his mother's hand as if it was a sacred thing.

"I will love you for all those that would have adored you," he said.

"Dear child! perhaps it is a little bit your duty to do so, for youinherit my nature. But, Calyste, do not be unwise, imprudent; try tolove only noble women, if love you must."

IX

A FIRST MEETING

What young man full of abounding but restrained life and emotion wouldnot have had the glorious idea of going to Croisic to see Madame deRochefide land, and examine her incognito? Calyste greatly surprisedhis father and mother by going off in the morning without waiting forthe mid-day breakfast. Heaven knows with what agility the youngBreton's feet sped along. Some unknown vigor seemed lent to him; hewalked on air, gliding along by the walls of Les Touches that he mightnot be seen from the house. The adorable boy was ashamed of his ardor,and afraid of being laughed at; Felicite and Vignon were soperspicacious! besides, in such cases young fellows fancy that theirforeheads are transparent.

He reached the shore, strengthened by a stone embankment, at the footof which is a house where travellers can take shelter in storms ofwind or rain. It is not always possible to cross the little arm of thesea which separates the landing-place of Guerande from Croisic; theweather may be bad, or the boats not ready; and during this time ofwaiting, it is necessary to put not only the passengers but theirhorses, donkeys, baggages, and merchandise under cover.

Calyste presently saw two boats coming over from Croisic, laden withbaggage,--trunks, packages, bags, and chests,--the shape andappearance of which proved to a native of these parts that suchextraordinary articles must belong to travellers of distinction. Inone of the boats was a young woman in a straw bonnet with a greenveil, accompanied by a man. This boat was the first to arrive. Calystetrembled until on closer view he saw they were a maid and a man-servant.

"Are you going over to Croisic, Monsieur Calyste?" said one of theboatmen; to whom he replied with a shake of the head, annoyed at beingcalled by his name.

He was captivated by the sight of a chest covered with tarred cloth onwhich were painted the words, MME. LA MARQUISE DE ROCHEFIDE. The nameshone before him like a talisman; he fancied there was somethingfateful in it. He knew in some mysterious way, which he could notdoubt, that he should love that woman. Why? In the burning desert ofhis new and infinite desires, still vague and without an object, hisfancy fastened with all its strength on the first woman that presentedherself. Beatrix necessarily inherited the love which Camille hadrejected.

Calyste watched the landing of the luggage, casting from time to timea glance at Croisic, from which he hoped to see another boat put outto cross to the little promontory, and show him Beatrix, already tohis eyes what Beatrice was to Dante, a marble statue on which to hanghis garlands and his flowers. He stood with arms folded, lost inmeditation. Here is a fact worthy of remark, which, nevertheless, hasnever been remarked: we often subject ourselves to sentiments by ourown volition,--deliberately bind ourselves, and create our own fate;chance has not as much to do with it as we believe.

"I don't see any horses," said the maid, sitting on a trunk.

"And I don't see any road," said the footman.

"Horses have been here, though," replied the woman, pointing to theproofs of their presence. "Monsieur," she said, addressing Calyste,"is this really the way to Guerande?"

"Yes," he replied, "are you expecting some one to meet you?"

"We were told that they would fetch us from Les Touches. If they don'tcome," she added to the footman, "I don't know how Madame la marquisewill manage to dress for dinner. You had better go and findMademoiselle des Touches. Oh! what a land of savages!"

Calyste had a vague idea of having blundered.

"Is your mistress going to Les Touches?" he inquired.

"She is there; Mademoiselle came for her this morning at seveno'clock. Ah! here come the horses."

Calyste started toward Guerande with the lightness and agility of achamois, doubling like a hare that he might not return upon his tracksor meet any of the servants of Les Touches. He did, however, meet twoof them on the narrow causeway of the marsh along which he went.

"Shall I go in, or shall I not?" he thought when the pines of LesTouches came in sight. He was afraid; and continued his way rathersulkily to Guerande, where he finished his excursion on the mall andcontinued his reflections.

"She has no idea of my agitation," he said to himself.

His capricious thoughts were so many grapnels which fastened his heartto the marquise. He had known none of these mysterious terrors andjoys in his intercourse with Camille. Such vague emotions rise likepoems in the untutored soul. Warmed by the first fires of imagination,souls like his have been known to pass through all phases ofpreparation and to reach in silence and solitude the very heights oflove, without having met the object of so many efforts.

Presently Calyste saw, coming toward him, the Chevalier du Halga andMademoiselle de Pen-Hoel, who were walking together on the mall. Heheard them say his name, and he slipped aside out of sight, but notout of hearing. The chevalier and the old maid, believing themselvesalone, were talking aloud.

"If Charlotte de Kergarouet comes," said the chevalier, "keep her fouror five months. How can you expect her to coquette with Calyste? Sheis never here long enough to undertake it. Whereas, if they see eachother every day, those two children will fall in love, and you canmarry them next winter. If you say two words about it to Charlotteshe'll say four to Calyste, and a girl of sixteen can certainly carryoff the prize from a woman of forty."

Here the old people turned to retrace their steps and Calyste heard nomore. But remembering what his mother had told him, he sawMademoiselle de Pen-Hoel's intention, and, in the mood in which hethen was, nothing could have been more fatal. The mere idea of a girlthus imposed upon him sent him with greater ardor into his imaginarylove. He had never had a fancy for Charlotte de Kergarouet, and he nowfelt repugnance at the very thought of her. Calyste was quiteunaffected by questions of fortune; from infancy he had accustomed hislife to the poverty and the restricted means of his father's house. Ayoung man brought up as he had been, and now partially emancipated,was likely to consider sentiments only, and all his sentiments, allhis thought now belonged to the marquise. In presence of the portraitwhich Camille had drawn for him of her friend, what was that littleCharlotte? the companion of his childhood, whom he thought of as asister.